Breathe
by Tahllydarling
Summary: The story of Natasha's extraction from a desert bunker. Clint's POV. Can be read as a prequel to Bruises or as stand alone.
1. Chapter 1

The hallways were only dimly lit but the map in his mind was clear. Clint stopped, listened, and allowed the environment to whisper to him, tracking air currents and silently adjusting his grip on the weapon in his hand. All was quiet, save for the low hum of the generator that supplied power to the tunnels, but the security system monitoring the halls was too new to be coincidence. He had to assume that his presence had been noted and take the necessary precautions.

The air was stiflingly hot and sweat beaded his forehead, running slowly over his skin and beneath his collar, as he moved deeper into the warren of tunnels beneath the warehouse complex. Keeping part of his attention on the words that came over the earpiece, he scanned the shadows thrown by the flickering security lights and remained alert for any threats that might wait for him.

Four days with not so much as a confirmed sighting, no contact, no indication that she was still alive. He was going out of his mind. Even those days in Iraq, where he had lost a half dozen of his colleagues in as many days, seemed like a walk in the park in comparison to the emotional shit storm he was weathering in her absence. Knowing that she had been given bad intel and walked into an ambush didn't make his mood any better. She was his partner, his best friend, his only family and the thought that she was in trouble without him there to back her up made him want to put an arrow in every person that stood between him and the information he needed to get her back.

As he eased his way along the narrow hallways, he allowed himself a brief consideration what might be waiting for him at the end of this journey. Not all of the potential outcomes were good. After four days as a hostage there was a possibility that even if he found Natasha she might not be whole. He tried to push the thought away - Romanoff was strong, she wouldn't break no matter what was done to her.

While the rest of the team searched the warehouse complex on the surface, he had opted to search the bowels of the building alone. It was the most sensible place to keep a hostage: quiet, not immediately apparent if you didn't know about the hidden stairway that joined the modern complex to a much older and much different one below it and easily missed due to its concealed entrance. Assuming that they hadn't moved her, it was the most likely place that she would be held.

"Hawk do you copy?" the voice in his ear pulled him out of his thoughts, reminding him once again that he wasn't the only one looking for his missing partner. There was an entire STRIKE team somewhere above him, each of them tasked with the mission of bringing one of their own home.

"I copy," he replied, placing his back to the wall and lowering to a crouch so that he could peer around the corner. A second hallway stretched as far as the eye could see, dimly lit by the overhead lighting and hotter than hell. He swiped the back of his hand across his brow, using his wrist band to wipe away some of the perspiration.

Static crackled in his ear and he counted the beats of his heart while he waited. He was so used to Natasha's voice on the comms that it threw him a little to hear someone else's when he worked without her. "Main complex clear; moving on to the outbuildings. You need some help down there?"

He contemplated the offer for a second - having others to help with the search would certainly speed things up but if he wanted to handle this quietly, which under the circumstances would be preferable, it was better to do it alone. If Natasha was alive and in some way compromised she would want to be found by him. Damage limitation was something they had become frighteningly adept at during the years of their partnership. "Na, I got it covered," he replied. "Keep me up to speed with what you find."

"Roger that."

He took a deep breath and forced away the acrid taste of his own unease. He couldn't allow emotion to rule over logic, not while he was alone. Straightening his shoulders Clint rounded the corner and pressed onward, fast and light on his feet. The gun in his hand was familiar enough to be comfortable, though ordinarily it wouldn't have been his first choice of weapon. The confined spaces within the tunnels made the Sig a more practical choice than his usual bow. It helped that he was almost as proficient with the handgun; there was a lot to be said for confidence when handling a weapon in a potential combat situation.

He counted the doors, clearing each room that he passed, casting his awareness out into the hallways in search of anything that might announce the presence of another human being. No signs of life. No sound. No movement. Three doors. Four doors. Turns were made at the appropriate points, each new corridor clear of obstruction and signs of recent occupation, but instinct pulled him onwards and deeper into the complex. That nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach never lied; he was getting close.

After what seemed like miles of hallway illuminated only by the dim yellow bulbs that hung from the ceilings, he found himself at a dead end. Two doors presented themselves for his consideration, both made of steel, one slightly ajar and the other firmly closed.

A quick glance through the open door was enough to ascertain that the room was empty and mostly dark, a trio of computer monitors bathing it in soft light. His own reflection in the the large window at the back of the room startled him and he whipped up the gun, his finger almost squeezing the trigger in the heartbeat before he recognised his own form and features. He frowned, recognising that the window was out of place in an underground structure and could only have one possible use - to provide a view into whatever lay beyond it. Hill had mentioned that the site had once been a lab complex, could it be a teaching lab of some kind?

Cautiously, he stepped into the room and moved between the desks and computer monitors. There was a camera on one of the desks, connected by cables to the laptop that sat nearest to it. Clint paused to swipe a finger across the mousepad and was rewarded when the screen saver blinked off and a video file resumed playing on the screen, muted by the previous viewer. Bile rose in his throat as he realised what he was watching, a female body suspended by the wrists from shackles in the ceiling, her feet barely touching the ground. She was being tortured, her body jerking involuntarily at the bite of blade and the application of electric current, her body bruised and battered by numerous rounds of interrogation.

He tried to tell himself that what he was seeing was somehow a mistake but denial could only take him so far when he was faced with the evidence. It was the work of a moment to delete the video file, and then to perform a search of the hard drive. He found eight more videos, each of them time stamped within the time frame of Natasha's disappearance. Nine separate instances in which she had been potentially beaten and interrogated. Nine separate rounds of torture. He didn't open any of them, didn't want to know what was on them; he just deleted everything that had a time stamp within the last four days. Nobody else needed to see what was in those files. Nobody, himself included.

As soon as the videos were gone, instinct had him moving toward the glass, his ears straining to pick up even the slightest of sounds that would indicate that his presence had been detected. The only sounds in the room came from him, a near silent footstep, his shallow breathing and the heart that beat like a wild thing in his chest, fear and anger churning within him. The glass was soundproof and he recognised the tint that identified it was a two way mirror, meaning that whomever was on the other side could be observed without knowing it.

The room was dim and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust well enough to see past his own reflection in the glass. Slowly a table came into focus on the other side of the window, a wheeled table covered in torture implements and then another fitted with thick leather straps that could be used as restraints. Clint reached out and placed one hand against the wall by the window, bracing himself as he focussed more carefully on the table with the restraints. Dark stains materialised on the table-top as he looked more closely, smeared across the stainless steel surface in a manner that made his stomach flip.

Beyond the tables and the restraints something lay on the floor. Something small.

Something human.

He stepped up closer to the glass trying to get a better look at what he was seeing and then the shape on the ground shifted slightly and it all became suddenly, horrifyingly clear.

His breath was a strangled gasp, all of the blood seeming to freeze in his veins. "Natasha."


	2. Chapter 2

_**A.N:** Thanks to those who have read and reviewed. It's taking me a while to get this one right in my head, hence the time between updates. I haven't been in Barton's head for a while and his mindset is proving elusive. As always I'd love to know what you think! _

* * *

Though his brain stuttered while it tried to make sense of what he was seeing, Clint's feet carried him to where he needed to be. The second door in the hallway, the one behind which his partner lay broken and bleeding on the ground, took too long to open. He threw everything he had into it, hauling on the heavy steel panels until they gave way and he could push his body into the gap to force it open fully.

The air was hot and stale as it rushed to greet him, a physical wall of dead energy that carried the scent of blood, sweat and an underlying hint of something clinical. In the wedge of light provided by the open door, he got a better look at her limp body and his chest tightened to the point where breathing seemed impossible.

She was curled up into the foetal position on her right side, her face partially masked by semi-congealed blood that glittered in the light. Naked, she had been shackled by both ankles to a heavy iron ring that was fixed into the concrete and even from a distance of several feet he could see that she needed immediate medical attention.

"Natasha!" he moved across the room to her side, seized with a sudden bone deep fear that he might be too late, that one of the torture tapes he deleted only seconds earlier may have contained her final moments. She flinched at the sound of his voice, cracking her eyes open to stare in an unfocused manner in his general direction. He wondered whether she was simply too exhausted, or perhaps too injured, to care who had made such a commotion entering the room or whether there was something else to blame for her lack of response.

Throwing himself to the floor at her side, he barely noticed her blood soaking into the knees of his suit as he reached for her. Gently, he tried to roll her body over so that he could make a more accurate assessment of her injuries and had to bite back a curse. It was worse than he had even dared to imagine. He counted five separate burns on the flesh of her stomach and side where electric current had been used as a torture tool, two of them distinctive enough in size and shape that he could tell they were from a hand-held taser. A series of shallow cuts and bruises at various stages of development interspersed the burns - no doubt intended to cause pain rather than force her to give up information.

Natasha stiffened beneath his touch and Clint immediately withdrew his hands, wary that she might not be in any condition to recognise friend from foe. Shifting her body away from him she curled further into herself, chains clanking with every jerky movement of her limbs. She didn't get far, too weakened by dehydration and blood loss to do more than lie in her own blood.

"Shh Romanoff it's me," he reassured her, reaching out once again to lay an open palm against her shoulder. She whimpered as his hand made contact, her breath a harsh, raspy thing in the stillness of the room. He tried to bring his face level with her own but found that she had closed her eyes tightly and half turned her face towards the floor, so instead he shifted his focus to performing a quick visual assessment of her injuries. Without allowing his hand to move from its current position, he followed the unnatural position of her arms and found another set of restraints. Her hands were cuffed at an angle that had to be excruciating and her right shoulder, currently trapped between her body and the floor, was in danger of dislocation. The flesh across her shoulders and back was covered in red lash marks, as if she had been flogged, some of the wounds had cut deep enough to draw blood. Clint averted his gaze, making a mental note to make sure that the wounds were properly cleaned later, and examined the cuffs. After a moments consideration, he had a possible solution to the problem. "Let me find something to get these off you."

Though he hated to leave her even for a moment, he forced himself to his feet and headed further into the room in search of something to release the restraints. He tried not to think about the things he saw as he looked around, about the recessed drain in the tiled section of the floor and the rusty coloured liquid that hadn't quite drained away, about the blood stains on the restraints of the table or the cuffs that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room. Images from the interrogation tape that he had deleted flashed behind his eyes.

As he reached for the set of bolt cutters that lay among the neatly arranged assortment of tools, he noticed that a few items had yet to be cleaned and were piled into a stainless steel bowl at the end of the table nearest the bed, all of them showing signs of recent use. At least the bolt cutters were clean. He found himself hoping that was because they hadn't got round to using them rather than because they were fastidious about cleaning. Her clothes had been tossed into the corner of the room and he collected them quickly, needing something to cover her with before they reconvened with the others.

Natasha's passivity began to concern him as he worked to free her of the cuffs. He began with her wrists, all too aware of how many different ways she could snap a man's neck with her thighs and not sure that he trusted her to think before she reacted given her current experiences. The restraints, a type of shackle that he had rarely seen outside of the Middle East, had gnawed into her wrists and blood stained both the metal and her fingers.

She couldn't hide the involuntary jerk of her muscles as he set the bolt cutters against the metal and gently levered them closed, unintentionally bringing the metal into contact with the damaged skin. While he worked to free her, he talked quietly, trying to reassure them both with the words that fell from his mouth. He wanted her to feel safe and he wanted to distract himself from what he was looking at because it was too close to home.

It was as he eased his arms beneath her body and raised her carefully into a sitting position, that he got his first indication of why his partner seemed so passive. On the inside of her right elbow were a series of puncture marks, the type made by the repeated use of a hypodermic needle. "Shit," he breathed, understanding her lack of response and the glassy look in her eye. She'd been drugged. The implications were too numerous to contemplate but given her history it was a troubling variable; hallucinogens in particular would be seriously bad news if they caused her to revisit the traumas of her past.

In spite of the heat, she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Unsteady, she shuffled around until she could see him but her eyes seemed to look straight through him. Whatever had happened in this room, and in light of the bruises that he could see on her upper thighs he had a sickening suspicion that it had gone beyond interrogation, she had retreated to a place so deep inside of herself that the men who had held her could never reach her.

He edged closer, staying where she could see him. "I'm going to free your feet now," he told her, "then you can get dressed and we can get out of here."

She nodded silently to show that she understood, eyes still vague. Too still. Too passive. _Dangerous_. He couldn't afford to be complacent just because they had been partners for years, Natasha had always been dangerous. Given the current circumstances, he had to be prepared for anything.

Her ankles were bruised but seemed otherwise intact when he managed to get the shackles off. She pulled her knees up to her chest, crossed her legs at the ankle and rocked back and forth as she pushed the thick waves of her hair away from her face. An additional puncture site below her ear became visible, the bruise surrounding it already fading. He wondered whether they had drugged her to gain control of her in the first instance and continued to do so in the days that followed. A sedated hostage was easier to handle than one who was fully aware.

Without a word, he helped her into her clothes, angling her limbs this way and that to make the process as painless as he could. He bit the inside of his cheek more than once to hold back the anger he felt as he took in the bruises and the blood that he encountered as he worked. His anger would not benefit either of them right now. Instead he eased the fabric of her suit into position over wounds that she wouldn't want anyone else to see and carefully fastened zippers so that she was decent.

"Can you stand Nat?" he asked her, deliberately using the nickname that only he used with her to try and establish trust as he linked his arm through hers and tried to raise her to her feet. At the use of the name, she turned her face towards him, her eyes finally seeming to focus on his features. Something passed through her eyes, there one second and gone the next, recognition.

"S'really you Barton?" she asked, words running together, voice rusty from lack of use and dehydration. Green eyes searched his face as if looking for some kind of trick and then she blinked, seeming to become more aware of her surroundings. Clint felt the change in her as her eyes swept over the area where she had been tortured, her muscles trembling as she processed the room in which they stood. She shuddered and leaned into him, allowing him to support her.

He slid one arm around her waist, wary of the bruises she was carrying. In that moment he realised that he was so used to the unflappable, self contained Natasha that he had no idea what to with the seemingly traumatised redhead that stood beside him. It seemed impossible that a woman like her, who hunted down those who hurt others, could become a victim. The evidence was in her face though, if a person knew her well enough to look for it, fear. Whatever had unfolded between these walls it had damaged her.

She closed her eyes, hitched in a breath and then tightened her grip on his forearm. Her eyes moved back to his face and they appeared darker, haunted. She seemed even paler than she had a moment ago, more brittle and fragile than he had ever seen her, but she was putting herself back together right before his eyes. In a low, shaky voice, she vocalised the next step on his agenda. "Clint, get me the hell out of here."


	3. Chapter 3

It became quickly apparent that Natasha would not be walking the maze of hallways that led to the exit on her own, they were both realist enough to accept it. Sure, she could stand but days of prolonged torture and little nutrition had taken a toll on her.

Neither of them wanted to remain in the room a moment longer than was necessary though, the weight of recent events was too heavy, pressing in on them both. Clint didn't have to have lived it to feel the urge to escape from the echoes of violence within the walls.

"Gonna need you to hold onto this for me," he told her, pressing the gun into her palm. Her eyes flew to his, surprise evident in her expression and then she tried to push the firearm back at him. Clint caught her chin gently between his fingertips and raised her eyes to his own. "You can't walk out of here without help Nat," he reasoned. "I'm gonna have my hands full and we both know that your reflexes are better than mine."

With a slight nod - though whether she was agreeing to carry the gun or to the fact that her reflexes were in fact quicker than his own he couldn't tell - she accepted the weapon, repositioned her fingers around the handle and lowered it to her side.

Since he was already helping to keep her upright, it seemed that the most sensible solution was for him to carry her out of the compound. Hooking her free arm around his neck, he scooped her up into his arms and shuffled her around until they found a position that was comfortable for both of them. They ended with one of his arms looped around her back and the other beneath the bend of her knees.

Ensuring that the safety catch was engaged on the Sig, she curled her hand in close to her hip and turned her face up towards his. "You can carry me as far as the entrance but I'm leaving on my own two feet Clint," she told him with no hint of debate in her voice. "I mean it Barton."

The fact that she could find the energy to be stubborn about their exit strategy reassured him slightly. He nodded his agreement, well aware that there was little point in arguing with Natasha Romanoff when she had made up her mind about something. He understood her reasons for wanting to maintain her dignity in front of the others, it just pleased him that she wasn't wasting energy by trying to do the same with him.

He adjusted her position slightly so that the ladder of her ribs didn't bite into his arm and realised just how little she weighed. It had always amazed him that something so dangerous could exist in such a deceptively delicate package. As she settled into his arms, her head came to rest against his shoulder. "You okay?" he asked, worried that the way he was holding her might put pressure on her injuries.

She didn't reply verbally, just rested her head in the crook of his neck, sighed and let him carry her. The fact that she could relax even slightly in his arms was a bigger declaration of trust than anything that she could have said and anyone who knew her would recognise it.

As he retraced his journey along the tunnels, he thought of little but putting as much distance as he could between his partner and the nightmare of her time in that room. The first priority was to get her to the extraction point and the medical attention she needed but when he was being completely honest with himself that focus was an excuse to avoid the obvious elephant in the room.

Keeping his gaze forward, ostensibly to remain aware of any potential dangers, gave him a near perfect excuse not to look at her. Clint didn't need to look at Natasha to see the ruin that they had made of her, the trembling of her limbs told him enough. He didn't need to think about the fact that she had been naked when he found her or to be reminded of the wounds that were now concealed beneath her suit. He couldn't chase the images away though, couldn't block them out.

As they approached the stairwell that led up to the surface complex, Natasha stirred in his arms. When her head lifted from his shoulder, he knew what was coming. "Put me down," she whispered.

"Tasha …"

The look in her eye was more expressive than a litany of Russian curses and he could almost sense the formation of a delightfully pithy response to his concern. "We agreed," she told him, shifting the position of the hand that held the gun in anticipation of him doing as she asked. When he made no immediate move to set her down, she sighed. "I have a gun Barton … "

There was too much history between them, too many times that they had kept one another going against all the odds, for him to make a scene over the issue. He understood why it was important to her, SHIELD was a hotbed of gossip and Natasha had worked too long and too hard to be seen as the equal of her male counterparts to let herself be seen as weak now.

Gently lowering her feet to the floor, he steadied her with a hand on her elbow and stepped back to give her some room. Natasha wavered slightly until she found her balance, closing her eyes until she found whatever reserves she needed to keep herself upright. Before his very eyes the Widow mask slid into place, all of her shields coming back up to hide how compromised she was.

When she gave him the nod, he made contact with the others to let them know that they were on their way out. "STRIKE team be advised that I have Romanoff," he announced into the comms link. "Repeat I have Agent Romanoff. Prep medevac for extraction, we're on our way out."

There were a chorus of responses, relief evident in the tone of the men and women who had helped to search for her. Declining offers of assistance and instructing the others to meet them at the extraction point, he slid an arm around his partner's waist and together they climbed the stairs. Her march of independence was hard earned and her breathing was raspy and uneven before they had even climbed a third of the way.

She paused, leaning heavily against him and tried to catch her breath. Perspiration glittered on her forehead, betraying the strain that she was placing on an already weakened body. "I could carry you the rest of the way," he offered, "even just to the top of the stairs. Nobody would know."

The shake of her head was that of someone already operating beyond her limits, her pain and fatigue shut away where no-one but he would know where to look for it. "I got this," she told him and forced herself stubbornly onwards. He simply followed, staying close enough to catch her if she fell.


	4. Chapter 4

As they emerged into the bright desert sunlight, both of them shading their eyes against the glare, Clint doubted that anyone would have the first clue about the extent of what she had endured. Natasha, like himself, was an accomplished liar and she was lying to everyone in the way she stepped out into the light and gave the impression that she hadn't been through hell. He admired her for it, truly he did. She was the strongest, most resilient person he had ever known.

Medics rushed forward to greet them, voices colliding in their eagerness to get their patient stabilised for transport. Clint listened only vaguely, too preoccupied with the mechanics of helping his partner to put one foot in front of the other and making it look like she wasn't seconds away from falling to the floor.

The others gathered around, field agents, STRIKE team members, everyone that had pulled together to look for her, concerned expressions making an appearance as they got close enough to see how pale she was, how unsteady she seemed. Sunlight only served to highlight the contrast between her skin and the blood that stained it, lighting her up like a million kilowatt spotlight.

"Good to see you Romanoff," Rumlow announced, clapping her on the shoulder. He meant nothing by it and Clint knew that but his palm landed on her injured shoulder, the one that had been close to dislocation and Natasha's response made his protective instincts rear up and snarl. As Rumlow's hand landed on the injured joint she stumbled, reflexes kicking in as she twisted her body away from the contact, pressing in against Clint in such a way that he had to adjust his hold on her or risk taking them both down to the ground.

"What the hell Rumlow?" he demanded, his voice becoming like one of his arrows, threatening and sharp. "Give her some room man."

Hands were raised immediately as Agent Brock Rumlow took a step backwards, his expression carefully blank so as not to show pity for Natasha's condition or to incite the anger of her partner. He appeared genuinely confused by the reaction.

"S'okay Rumlow," she exclaimed, leaning into Clint's body and allowing him to anchor her. "Shoulder's injured that's all."

The explanation was readily accepted, relief passing through the expressions of the agents around them. An injury was something that easily explained a reaction that was out of character, a slip in the Black Widow persona that they all recognised.

Clint held her steady, his arms coming around her to keep her upright while she shook violently, muscles tightening in response to the panic. Her back pressed against his chest and he could feel the expansion of her lungs with every breath, the thundering of her heartbeat; she wasn't as calm as she appeared. Far from it.

The chief medic on the flight pushed her way through the gathered agents and stopped a few feet away, no doubt assessing the slightly wild look in the eye of both agents that stood before her. Clint knew that he wasn't being rational, it wasn't realistic to think that he could protect Natasha from everything that was waiting for her, but that didn't mean his subconscious had got the memo.

"Agent Romanoff my name is Clare Callaghan," she explained quietly, "I'd like to get you onboard so that we can transport you back to base. We can leave whenever you're ready."

It was a stroke of mastery to put the decision into Natasha's hands, when given control of the situation Natasha seemed to regain her equilibrium slightly. Fingernails still biting into the exposed flesh of Clint's arm, she nodded her agreement and took a one faltering step toward the waiting aircraft, then another.

"Stay close?" she asked, as he moved forward with her. On another day he would have informed her that it would have been difficult for him to do otherwise while she had her nails embedded firmly into his flesh, but instead he nodded silently and moved with her until they reached the jet.

Natasha submitted to the medics without complaint when they insisted that she enter the makeshift infirmary area and sit on the gurney but her grip on his arm remained strong. Doctors unnerved her at the best of times, it was to be expected that when she was feeling particularly vulnerable she wouldn't want to be anywhere that she felt less than comfortable. Given her long history of being abused by those responsible for her physical wellbeing, her lack of resistance was testament to her exhaustion.

Callaghan, perhaps aware of the Black Widow's near legendary distaste for medical, worked quickly to assess her for transport. While the medic worked Clint sourced them both a bottle of water from the supplies and handed one of them to his partner.

"It would be better if we set up an IV to deliver fluids," the medic announced, easing the water bottle out of Natasha's grasp, "that way we can be sure that she's getting everything she needs. Oral hydration at this point would potentially make her sick." She turned to look directly at Natasha, making and holding eye contact. "I could give you something for the pain Agent, it'll make you a lot more comfortable."

Natasha flinched away from the medic's careful touch. Exhaustion made her words run together, "no drugs."

At the first indication that Callaghan was about to argue, Clint straightened Natasha's arm and rolled up the sleeve of her suit to reveal the puncture wounds at her elbow, then edged her hair aside to show the one in her neck. "We don't know what's in her system right now," he explained.

It was only half of the reason that Natasha didn't want the pain relief though, she very rarely allowed anyone to give her drugs - yet another legacy of growing up within the clutches of a covert government operation. Drugs dulled reactions and made her vulnerable, therefore drugs were to be avoided in all but the most serious of situations. Neither Clint nor Natasha enlightened anyone else of that happy little viewpoint.

"I understand," she acknowledged, "but I'm going to need a few minutes alone with Agent Romanoff to assess the injuries that she's carrying. You can wait in the main body of the aircraft."

There was an expectation that that instruction would be followed without protest but she didn't look too sure of herself, perhaps because she'd heard stories of how flexible Strike Team Delta were with the rules. Clint raised an eyebrow, ready to face off against anyone that pushed too far at Natasha's compromised defences. It was his partner's agreement that stopped him from causing a scene.

He crouched in front of the bed, bringing his gaze down to her level and waited until he was sure that she was focused on what he was about to say. "Right outside," he told her. "You need me," he pointed to the curtain, " I am right there."

Emerging from behind the screen that separated the treatment bay from the rest of the jet, he found several of their colleagues already aboard and preparing for takeoff. The flight back to base would take a couple of hours and he suspected that given the narcotics in Natasha's system it would be a while longer before they were willing to release her.

"Hey man, about before …"

Clint glanced up to find Rumlow seated across from him, his athletic frame way more at ease than should have been possible in the surroundings. It was the beginning of an apology and the other STRIKE team leader looked like he felt as awkward about it as Clint did. Scrubbing a hand down his face, Clint sank into the seat beside him and kicked his feet out in front of him, stretching tired muscles. "You couldn't know she was hurting," he replied, accepting the apology even though it wasn't his to accept. He had overreacted and they both knew it but Rumlow knew how hot emotions could run in such situations. Accepting the olive branch would go a long way towards making things okay between them.

"Any word on how they managed to take her down?" he asked, genuinely curious no doubt as to how an agent of Natasha's calibre had been subdued and held for any length of time. "Did she say anything about the guys responsible?"

Clint clenched his jaw, counted to three and then swallowed his instinctive response. "She's not really conversational right now," he replied. "Looks like she was drugged."

"She okay?" Rumlow asked.

Clint wasn't sure what to say. Was she okay? Far from it. Would she be okay? Too early to tell. He couldn't say any of those things to anyone on this mission though; his fears for Natasha were rooted in their close relationship, he could see the cracks in her, the bloodstains, the ghosts in her eyes. "She will be."

To discourage further attempts at conversation, Barton put his head back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. Images flashed, blood and surgical implements lined up on a table. He sighed, opened his eyes again and instead focused on the opaque screen directly opposite him. A second medic disappeared behind the fabric and the murmur of voices drifted out into the belly of the jet where the passengers, experienced agents all of them, tried not to hear.

They'd been in the air for about half an hour when Clint became aware that all was not well in the treatment bay. He could hear the medics trying to persuade Natasha to let them do something and his partner's flat refusal. The rustle of fabric followed and then the sound of a surgical package being opened. Tension uncurled within him and he braced himself in the seat, well aware that for Natasha anything medical was a minefield of emotional and psychological triggers - and that was without the experiences of recent days. He had no way of knowing what he would walk in on if he were to step behind that curtain.

"Agent Barton could you step in for a moment please?" Callaghan's voice called, an edge of tension beneath the calm.

Glad to be pulled from his thoughts, Clint was out of his seat and across the space before the sentence was out of her mouth. Or he was glad, but that was until he realised why they had called for him. Rounding the edge of the screen, he found Natasha hyperventilating on the bed, her body folded over and arms braced against her knees, a position that he knew from experience would not feel good with bruised or busted ribs. One sleeve of her suit had been detached and a blood pressure cuff encircled the limb above the elbow.

"Her pulse is all over the place!" the second medic announced, pulling the earpieces of the stethoscope from her ears.

Clint assessed the situation in a heartbeat and recognised the situation for what it was. "Anxiety attack?" he asked, already moving forward. "Was there a trigger?"

"We were about to put a line in to deliver some fluids," Callaghan explained, "nothing that should typically cause a reaction like this."

He hated to see her suffering and knew first hand how debilitating it was to lose control when panic surged inside your skin. After the events with Loki, Clint had lost hours, days even, in a state of constant anxiety as the memories started to surface. "Give me a minute," he instructed.

"We need to get a line into her ASAP," the second medic argued, standing her ground.

"And we will," he stated with enforced calm, "once I've calmed her down."

Callaghan, apparently recognising that this was an argument they wouldn't win, backed down and drew her colleague away from the bedside. "Give him a minute or two …"

"Why, what can he do? We should give her a shot to calm …"

Clint rounded on the two medics. "She said no drugs," he reminded them. Knowing that time was of the essence, he laid it on the line for them. "I can do more for her than sedatives right now if you'll just give me some space."

Whether it was acceptance of his claim or down to the sharp tone of his voice, Callaghan ushered her colleague out of the area and gave them some privacy.

Natasha moaned low in her throat, her throat working convulsively as she tried to regulate her breathing. Gasping for air, she searched for him as he said her name aloud, her eyes wild and glassy. Clint didn't think, just reacted. He sank down so that he was directly in front of her, his knees on either side of her own, and took her arms in his. His fingers rested over the pulse in her right wrist, mindful of her injuries, measuring the furious pounding of her blood.

"Look at me Nat," he told her, his voice retaining a level of calm that had long since fled both of them. He raised two fingers to point at his eyes, drawing her gaze where he needed it. "Right here, that's it. Just look at me."

Her hand shot out and grabbed the front of his shirt, knuckles white as snow against the fabric beneath the layer of dried blood. She was falling, grasping for something, anything that was familiar and calming, and he gave her the only thing that he could. He offered her himself without any reservations whatsoever.

"C'mon Nat, breathe," he urged. "Breathe with me, come on. In …" He took a deep breath in. "... and out. C'mon Tasha, you can do this."

He repeated the process over and over, relieved when her breathing fell in time with his own. She was shaking beneath his hands, her eyes locked on his as she followed his instructions. In and out she breathed, following him, letting him guide her to where she needed to be. Slowly, her pulse started to calm. "That's right, just breathe. Just breathe."

As she regained her composure, Natasha leaned into him, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. With her face buried in his upper chest, Clint felt every spasm of her muscles, every tremor, every breath that escaped her lips. Carefully, not wanting to spook her, he moved one hand to rub her back. "Easy Nat," he reassured her, unsure of whether the words were for her benefit or his own, "it's just me. Just breathe for me. Just breathe."

When she lifted her head again, still breathing with exaggerated calmness, there was a plea in her eyes that he couldn't ignore. "Can't do this alone," she managed to whisper.

"You don't have to," he replied, climbing up onto the mattress beside her. She leant against him and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. The shivers subsided and after a few minutes of simply breathing together, he called the medics back in, making a note of their surprised expressions. Whatever they had expected to find it apparently wasn't a relatively calm and compliant spy.

He was right there as they put in the IV to deliver fluids into her system and though she wasn't quite back to being her usual self, she held it together while they did what they had to. She let Callaghan inspect and bandage the wounds to her wrists. She let the second medic, whom they learned was named Fallon, clean the cut on her brow with something that stung enough to make her eyes water. She let them take her blood pressure and probe her injured shoulder but the haunted look stayed in her eyes for the rest of the journey and her blood stained fingers clung onto his hand like her life depended on it.


	5. Chapter 5

Neither of them had ever been fond of the infirmary, perhaps it was the smell of the place or perhaps it was the fact that they associated it with pain. Clint would have preferred to be almost anywhere on base than their current sterile environment but he hadn't come this far to leave her now.

Once the IV had been in place, a procedure that proved far from straightforward given her state of dehydration, Callaghan and Fallon had retreated to give Natasha some privacy. Clint, acting as her lifeline in the storm, had simply stayed, allowing her to lean against him if she chose to. She had drifted in and out of consciousness for the remainder of the flight, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder while the IV slowly replaced some of the fluids that she had lost.

She was awake when they landed, the tension in her muscles gradually increasing with every metre that the jet taxied along the ground. She knew where they were and she had a good idea of what was coming. Callaghan's primary concern had been to make sure that she wasn't in any danger but the doctors on base would be tasked with a far more comprehensive examination of the Black Widow's injuries, treatment would be given, reports would be written.

Medics waited for them on the tarmac, a wheelchair between them. Callaghan had bowed to Natasha's insistence that she didn't want to be wheeled off the jet on the gurney and so it was that Clint once again offered his services as a crutch so that she could preserve whatever dignity was left to her.

"I'm fine," she told those that sprang forward to help her. "Just give me some space and Agent Barton and I will make it to the infirmary on our own."

Dubious looks passed between the faces in front of them. Clint understood, he would have felt dubious about it if it were anyone but Natasha. He'd learned long ago never to doubt her stubbornness.

"Agent Romanoff, I really must advise …"

"I'll make sure she gets there," Clint assured them, once again feeling compelled to defend her. He reached out to take the IV fluid bag from Fallon who had been walking a half-step behind. "If it's too much then we'll improvise or I'll enlist some help."

Her progress was slow, each step causing her obvious discomfort, but she kept moving. Clint let her find her own pace and fell into step with her. He was trained for patience, a necessary skill for those who worked with long range weapons, and he employed those skills now giving her all the time she needed to cross the landing field.

"Need a minute," she exclaimed breathlessly when they reached the entrance to the building. She planted a hand against the wall and just breathed for a few seconds. With one hand pressed to her ribs it was easy to imagine what was ailing her.

He didn't want to crowd her, didn't want to pry into her state of mind but concern made him less wary of her emotional boundaries. He thought of the wounds concealed beneath her suit, the ones that nobody but he had seen, and knew that it wouldn't be easy for her to expose herself in that way to others. Bullet wounds and knife wounds were par for the course, battle injuries that seldom became a talking point amongst SHIELD personnel, what Natasha was carrying was altogether more personal.

"They're here to help Nat," he told her softly, careful to keep anything that might be considered judgement out of his voice.

"I know." There was no fight in her voice, little emotion. She reiterated the words a second later, voice filled with resignation. "I know."

She surrendered herself quietly into the care of the waiting medics when they arrived at their destination, perhaps too tired from the walk along the halls to protest or maybe just surrendering to the inevitable. Natasha was a realist above all things, she needed medical care and therefore had little choice but to put herself in the hands of those assigned to give it to her.

Clint's reticence was greater than hers, though he was relieved to note that the lead doctor appeared to be a female. Perhaps it would be easier for all concerned given the circumstances.

"You should wait outside Agent," one of the medics informed him. He had known that the words would come, that the usual protocols would apply. Despite his status as her partner, he had never been given details of Natasha's condition when she was admitted to the infirmary, that information was for the patient and their superiors. He always got the news eventually but it usually came third hand.

From the edge of the bed where she sat, Natasha's eyes flew to his. There was something close to fear beneath the expression of calm that she was likely holding onto by sheer force of will. He didn't want to leave her. Judging by the look on her face, she didn't want him to go.

"Nat?" he asked, putting the decision in the hands that he felt it belonged in. It was Natasha's examination, he would leave if she told him to.

"Agent Barton." The doctor's voice was a little steelier the second time, something close to impatience hiding beneath the measured tone. Clearly she was not used to displays of disobedience. "I could call for the DIrector and have him send people to remove you if you prefer?"

Clint met Natasha's eyes, raised and eyebrow in enquiry. Over the years they'd become masters at non-verbal communication so he knew exactly how to interpret whatever response she gave him. When she dipped her chin in a nod, barely noticeable, he simply crossed the open area of floor and took up a position leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. "By all means Doc," he told her, "go ahead because that's the only way you'll get me out of here other than Romanoff telling me to go."

Natasha straightened up on the edge of the bed, still looking frighteningly pale but more like herself. "He stays," she informed them all.

Callaghan, until that moment a silent observer, weighed in on the matter. "Having Agent Barton nearby did help on the jet," she admitted, "his presence calms her."

Realising that the battle was lost, the medic abandoned her pursuit of his exile and turned her attention instead to her patient. Notes and observations were exchanged with Callaghan and Fallon, blood was drawn and sent in the capable hands of one of the nursing staff for analysis. A penlight was shone into her eyes and her limbs were manipulated this way and that to assess potential damage to muscle and bone. Natasha sat on the edge of the bed throughout, placid as a doll, answering questions when they were asked without elaborating on any of the responses.

It was obvious to everyone present that she was hiding almost as much as she was admitting to.

Her eyes found his while they stripped away the other arm of her suit to probe her injured shoulder. He offered her what support he could without words, holding her gaze, allowing the edge of his lips to twitch into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. Reassurance, that was what she needed, someone or something to hold onto while the world remade itself around her.

"I'd like to x-ray the joint," the doctor announced, her voice devoid of emotion, "see if there's any damage we can't see."

Natasha simply nodded her assent.

When it came time for them to strip away the rest of her suit, the staff became uneasy about his presence. Clint was about to step beyond the curtain and give them some privacy when Natasha in her matter of fact way took the decision out of their hands. Peeling the suit down to her waist, she exposed the hideously bruised ribs and the taser burns that littered her torso to the world.

"Let's get these cleaned up shall we?" one of the nurses exclaimed kindly, assembling the cotton swabs, antiseptic and small dressings that would cover the burns. Nobody was green enough to express distress or shock at what they saw before them, torture was something they had all come across before.

He suspected that the manner in which they treated her was the only thing that kept Natasha from shattering apart.

The cleaning of the burns and the lash marks on her back must have been more painful than expected because her hand shot out unexpectedly to reach for his. Clint moved closer to the bed, caring little if she broke his fingers because she needed an outlet for the pain that allowed her to remain silent while they worked on her. He had the strong suspicion that if they were to break her calm, if she were to scream or cry, that she would be unable to stop.

In an attempt to distract her, he rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand and was rewarded by the slight relaxation of her grip. The fact that his partner was half naked in front of him meant little, Natasha viewed her body as a tool, a weapon, and as such had few qualms about letting people see it. He had stitched her up and checked her over more times than he could count in the years since he had recruited her to SHIELD, they were comfortable enough around each other that neither of them blinked when flesh was on show.

The marks on her back were certainly painful but they weren't as deep as he had feared. Given Natasha's above average healing capacity, she might even avoid the scarring that usually came from such injuries. It was well known that the Black Widow had unusually few scars for an agent of her abilities.

"Will they heal clean?" he asked, needing to break the silence.

The nurse looked up at him, her expression meant to be reassuring. "They aren't as deep as they looked so that improves the chances," she replied quietly. "Agent Romanoff heals faster than most and that will certainly help."

"How's the pain?" the doctor asked, scribbling notes onto a medical chart from the foot of the bed.

Clint tried to make eye contact but Natasha averted her gaze. In all their years together he couldn't remember a time when she wouldn't look him in the eye. It was less than reassuring and when she opened her mouth he could hear the lie on her lips. "I've had worse."

"On a scale of one to ten?" the doctor pressed.

"Maybe a four."

He knew that she was lying but he bit his tongue and stayed silent. The truths were hers to tell, not his.

Once the wounds were cleaned they took her to x-ray before any of the wounds were dressed. Clint stayed behind, allowing himself the luxury of pacing the infirmary in her absence. He had too much energy, too much emotion inside him. He had seen her brought low more than once but nothing like this, this time she was wearing her silence like a shield, one that he couldn't break through without harming them both in the resulting explosion.

"Penny for your thoughts," the voice was familiar and snapped him out of his head and into reality. Fury stood just inside the doorway, the folds of his long leather coat making him look far more sinister than anyone should ever look in an infirmary.

Barton snorted out a breath, "I'm not sure that you want to hear my thoughts right now Sir."

Fury nodded, accepting the anger, and Clint looked at him more closely. The strain of recent days was evident in the Director's face, the weight of sleepless nights reddening his good eye and making his expression seem even more serious than usual. "How is she?"

"Why ask me?"

"Because you know her better than the doctors ever will," Fury replied as if the answer should be obvious. "You can read her in a way that no-one else here can even dream of."

Clint chose his words carefully, well aware that the director of SHIELD was an unusually astute man. "She's been through a lot."

The regret in Fury's expression was genuine. He had been the one to send Natasha into that operation, granted he couldn't have known how badly things would go awry, Clint imagined that knowledge didn't sit well with him. Nobody could have known that the intelligence was flawed or else they would have sent her in with back up.

"And you?" Fury asked, fixing his gaze on Clint as if looking for the lie that he knew was coming his way.

Clint stopped pacing, planted his hands on his hips and hung his head for a second or two. How was he? Not good. The anger and guilt that was burning up inside of him was toxic, potent, a fast moving missile looking for a target. Releasing that anger would get him exactly nowhere, anger had no place in an infirmary. Guilt however, that was something he could express.

"I should have been there," he exclaimed. "If I hadn't been delayed coming back from Argentina …"

"Don't do that to yourself Barton," he exclaimed tightly. "None of us can change the past. It's about how we go forward from here."

Clint accepted the logic. Wishing couldn't change the facts, and was therefore futile. He steeled himself, pulled himself up straight and faced his boss. "So how do we move forward Sir?"

"Whatever she needs Agent," Fury told him gravely, "she gets."

Clint nodded to acknowledge what had been said. "And if she needs time and space?"

Fury didn't even blink. "So be it. If Natasha needs to be away from SHIELD then you and I are going to make sure that it happens"


	6. Chapter 6

She looked worse for wear when she returned, something feral hiding in the shadows behind her eyes. Natasha's movements were graceless, her dancer's stride curbed by pain and the stiffening of battered muscles, her skin was pale and perspiration was forming on her forehead.

She was trying too hard to hold it all together, too hard not to let them all see just how compromised she was.

"We'll dress these now and then you can rest a while until the doctor comes back," the nurse informed her once Natasha had once again been helped up onto the bed. Clint, having helped her up, stayed close enough that she could maintain her grip on his hand.

She didn't look at him. She didn't look at the staff. Her gaze stayed fixed on the blank wall opposite.

An hour passed while they waited, her grip on his hand gradually removing the feeling from his fingertips, but still she didn't speak. Giving her the silence that she seemed to crave, he wondered what was going on inside her head, if the masks were close to fracturing. His own mind was filled with questions, concerns over what he could do to help her regain her strength, help her to find herself again.

Better than most within the walls of this organisation, he knew what it was to be unmade. The experience had almost ended him, his career, his life. Natasha had been unmade and reforged more times than he could count. What had been taken from her in that bunker could never be erased, not even with the impressive protocols that SHIELD seemed to have for such occasions. He didn't even know the full extent of it but he knew that it was more than the required therapy sessions and a little physio would put right.

Finally the doctor returned. "Your x-rays show no obvious damage to the shoulder," she announced, "which means that the pain will likely diminish over the next few days. We'll take some more scans when the swelling goes down a bit."

"That's good news," Clint replied, aware that the woman was waiting for some sort of reaction and that Natasha was showing no signs of offering one.

"I'd like to do a full physical examination, see what else we're dealing with … "

"No," Natasha interrupted, her voice soft but firm. "There's no need, I'm fine."

"Agent Romanoff …"

Clint became aware of the change in Natasha's breathing at around the same time that her grip on his fingers tightened fractionally. This conversation would not end well. He could already imagine the outcome if the doctor tried to force Natasha to submit to the exam.

"I said," Natasha reiterated, "I'm fine. All I need right now is for everyone to get out of my face and let me rest."

None of the medics believed her, that much was evident in the glances that they shared but nobody openly courted confrontation with any of the agents that made up Fury's elite.

"I agree that rest will help," the doctor announced far from beaten by her patient's display of reluctance. "We'll discuss it further after you've had a chance to rest a while."

Now he was far from qualified as a doctor but even Clint recognised the red flag in the suggestion. Natasha was declining medical attention, which made any potential consequences of her refusal her own fault, but postponing examination could also result in difficulties if the injuries were of any severity.

"They aren't going to give up Nat," he told her when they had been left completely alone once again.

"I know," she replied, shifting toward the edge of the mattress. "I've had enough needles stabbed into me in the last few days to last a lifetime. The lights here, she smell of antiseptic, all of it makes me want to throw up. Just the thought of someone prying around in my head right now …" she trailed off, swallowed a couple of times and let out a low moan. Clint managed to get the waste basket in front of her before she vomited. He held back her hair and offered soothing words while she composed herself.

When it was over she raised her head and tried to force her voice to sound calm. "I need to be somewhere quiet, somewhere that I can process it all, make sense of the broken memories and put them back together. I need to be anywhere but here …"

He knew what he had to do and on some level he'd known it since he'd spoken with Fury earlier in the afternoon. She needed to get off base, needed somewhere safe and secure; he could give her that. She needed to be protected while she recuperated; he was the only man she might trust enough to keep her safe.

While she spoke, he had moved the basket away and came to stand in front of her, wary that the stirrings of her distress might bring on another episode like the one aboard the jet. An anxiety attack would be the quickest way to bring the medics rushing back into the room with their insistence that she be held for further evaluation.

Natasha looked up at him, a plea for understanding in her eyes. He knew her better than anyone and knew that his relationship with her was one of the things that had pulled him back from the episode with Loki. It wasn't just friendship, it wasn't just family, it wasn't even attraction, it was edging toward that risky, four letter word that had the power to wreck a partnership.

Clint took both of her hands in his, causing her to look up at him. "I'm going to grab some supplies and then we can get out of here. I'll be back as soon as I can, be ready."

He hated to leave her but it was a necessary evil. Fury was waiting for him, apparently unsurprised by the turn of events that brought his most efficient marksman to his office door. The conversation was brief, the agreement was unanimous. Clint was to take Natasha from the base and stay with her until such time as she was fully recovered or ready to come back and discuss what had happened in New Mexico. Nobody was to know where they were headed, nobody would contact them. Clint was to be solely responsible for the welfare of his partner.

"Take one of the quinjets," Fury offered, "leave it at any of our sites and find your own way from there. I'll await your return Agent."

Clint didn't know what to say, not only was his commander in chief letting him take a huge risk with a valuable asset but he was facilitating their exit from a secure site. He stepped up and shook Fury's hand, already skipping through the list of places he might take her and the safe house locations that others might not know about. With a quinjet at their disposal he could have her on the other side of the country within hours.

"I won't let you down Sir," he announced, "I'll make sure that she has all the time she needs."

"Fury's going to be furious when he finds out we've gone AWOL," she announced, more than a little surprised when he returned to the infirmary with a bag full of weapons in one hand and a set of her clothing in the other.

He'd made a quick stop at Natasha's quarters picking something less conspicuous for her to wear on their way out of the facility. As common as it was to see her stalking the hallways with bruises and with her suit looking a little worse for wear, he knew that she would prefer something comfortable. With that in mind he had picked out well worn clothes for her, favourites that wouldn't put pressure on sore muscles or chafe against her injuries.

The simple pleasure in her eyes at the sight of her own clothes made him glad that he'd made the effort. She'd already pulled the IV and covered the insertion site with a small dressing so she didn't waste any time in getting started. Ever the gentleman, he turned his back to give her time to get dressed.

"He didn't rise to be head of SHIELD by being a fool Tasha," he replied. He rummaged through the medical supplies that were available, throwing a few things into the bag that he thought he might have use for in the days ahead. Bandages, dressings, rehydration sachets, painkillers and suture kits. He hesitated before throwing in a couple of vials of sedatives, a bottle of morphine and some hypodermics, reasoning that it was better to be safe than sorry. "We take the most direct route from here to the quinjet and go wherever you want. We can be out of here as soon as you're ready."

He turned his head to find her moving around the edge of the bed, fully dressed and looking more like herself than she had in hours. In profile the cut on her forehead was obvious, the spark that usually resided in her diminished.

"I'm past ready," her voice was one that he would have known anywhere, Natasha's usual tone, filled with an edge of steel.

Clint helped Natasha into her jacket then hoisted the bag onto his shoulder. They stepped out into the hallway, heading along the hall with purpose. "Anywhere in particular you want to go?" he asked.

"Just away from here," she replied, "far away from here. Take me somewhere that I can catch my breath."


	7. Chapter 7

The purr of the quinjet engine was reassuring, a familiar sound like the distant rumble of a coming storm. Clint had always loved the freedom of flight, the exhilaration of being high above other people and looking down on them from a distance. He had been one of the first to volunteer when Fury had been looking for agents to go to flight training. Natasha had been right behind him.

Looking at her now, curled into a ball in the co-pilot seat, it was obvious that she was exhausted. It was equally obvious that she was happy with the silence that had descended. In refusing to speak about what had happened to her she could continue to deny its effect on her, something that would protect her in the first instance but wouldn't last forever.

Mentally he ran through the list of places that he could take her, safe places where nobody would think to look for them in the coming days. Between them they had a surprising number of safe houses and apartments, some of which were on SHIELD's radar and others which were strictly off limits to the outside world. They maintained most of their hideaways in the names of various aliases and the only people that ever stepped inside them were the two of them. One of his properties was so private that not even Natasha, who knew almost all of his secrets, knew of its existence.

With the quinjet at their disposal he could have taken her anywhere but he didn't want to keep them in the air too long. A SHIELD aircraft was relatively easy for the agency to track - even if he had made a point of disabling the tracking signal before takeoff. Natasha had a safe house in Massachusetts, a cosy apartment in an old Victorian house in Lowell, but he wasn't sure that she'd want to be seen by people who knew her in her current state. His New York apartment seemed like a good bet, discreet, quiet and probably the last place that SHIELD would look for him given their association with Stark and the fact that he associated the city with the Chitauri attacks. Nothing triggered PTSD like place memory.

"Is my place in New York okay?" he asked, already knowing that she didn't really care where they ended up as long as it didn't involve a trip to medical or a SHIELD base.

Natasha stirred and looked at him, surprise registering in her expression. "You never go there anymore," she remarked.

Clint shrugged. "Whenever we've been in the city we've stayed with Stark."

He didn't tell her that the only reason he kept the apartment was so that he could escape from Stark when the billionaire got so annoying that he had the overwhelming itch to put an arrow in him. Stark liked secrets, particularly those that belonged to other people. Clint might be willing to trust him in the field but he wasn't ready to open up his entire life to the guy.

"Exactly," she countered. "We each have a whole floor of the most exclusive new York real estate and you maintain a tiny eighth floor apartment where the neighbours barely even grunt at you when you pass in the stairway?"

Glancing across at her he offered her a brief smile. "It suits me more than a tower of glass," he replied. "Sometimes I just prefer the quiet and the view from the roof is amazing."

She looked at him in that direct way of hers and he wondered whether his thoughts were written all over his face.

"Besides if SHIELD look for us in New York they'll look to Stark first," he explained, returning his gaze to the windshield and the sky beyond. "Nobody will look for us at an apartment they don't know I have."

"Quiet is good," she replied finally. "New York it is."

It was early evening when they arrived. The apartment was just as he had left it over a year ago, minus the layer of dust that would have accumulated in his absence. The old lady along the hall kept the place neat for him when he was out of town, an arrangement that allowed him to keep his privacy and her to earn a little extra money.

Natasha, moving stiffly and solidly out of breath after the climb up the stairs from the floor below, moved between the items of furniture as if seeing them for the first time. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes as they bounced from wall to wall. As she moved further into the room, she switched on all of the lights as she passed, ensuring that every corner of the room was lit. She looked like a hunted animal, as if she were waiting for someone to jump out at her from the corners.

Her hand clutched her injured ribs, the ones that she had insisted were just bruised but Clint was convinced were actually broken, as she reacquainted herself with the space. One of the main reasons that he had brought her to this particular apartment was the fact that she had stayed there several times, both with and without him. Familiarity could only help matters in the days that would follow.

Excusing himself, he checked over the rest of the apartment to make sure that it was secure and then left to inform Mrs Capretta along the hall that he was home and therefore the apartment wouldn't need any attention. He returned to find her sitting in the armchair, still clutching her ribs, her hands shaking. The trauma of recent days was catching up with her, leaving her shaken and bringing her emotions to the surface.

"Do you want to try and get some sleep?" he asked, crossing the room and crouching before her. "Take the bedroom, I'll crash out here."

Natasha shook her head, "don't think I could sleep even if I wanted to." Her voice was not her own, too many hours of biting back screams had changed its tone. Unconsciousness was no substitute for real sleep and it was a fair bet that her body was running on empty right about now.

Silence settled over them, oppressive and tinged with a discomfort that they couldn't break without bringing the current situation back to the fore. She was obviously uncomfortable, her expression shuttered and closed off to him. Clint didn't know what to do for the best and the helplessness that he felt was doing a fine job of feeding the anger that simmered in his gut. He wanted to hurt something, badly, as long as it wasn't the woman on the other side of the room.

He filled a glass of water for her and then went to sit by the window, pretending that the book in his hands could hold his attention in the same way that she did. He thought about heading out to the store to get some supplies but she seemed worse when he wasn't within sight, instead he settled for watching the traffic moving on the street below, allowing the movement to calm his thoughts.

"Any chance of some of those meds you stole?" Her voice carried across the room, husky and soft.

When he turned his head, already moving to fulfil the request, she was paler than she had been and her micro-expressions betrayed the discomfort that she was feeling. He wanted to ask where the pain was but was afraid of the answer. The question could be entirely too personal.

He brought her a couple of options from which to choose and handed her the untouched glass of water, letting her take her time over the decision. As expected Natasha opted for the weaker of the two medications. She had never been a fan of the weightless feeling that narcotics caused, something that he suspected had much to do with her KGB background. She shivered as she handed the glass back to him, her muscles trembling violently beneath her skin.

"Do you want some tea?" he asked, lost for what else he could offer her. Something warm, something comforting.

Natasha nodded gratefully, pulling her knees further up to her chest and leaning back against the cushions only to shift again a moment later when a new ache presented itself.

He took his time, allowing the impotent anger to seep away while he waited for the water to boil. His partner needed him and he would be there until she didn't. Simple as that. Even if he was bleeding quietly on the inside from the reality of what happened, he would hold it together for Natasha.

"Here," he told her, offering the mug. Natasha straightened in her chair and offered him a weak smile. Her hands shook alarmingly when she reached for the mug and he had to steady her grip so that the liquid didn't spill over them both. After placing the tea on the floor, he helped her to settle into a more comfortable position with her head on the arm of the chair and her body curled up within the seat. His jacket hung over the back and he pulled it down to cover her, hoping the the warmth would ease some of her aches or at the very least stop her shivers.

Natasha's lips quirked into that ghost of a smile. "It smells like you," she told him, tugging the material closer to her chin. Unsure whether that was a good thing or a bad one, he smoothed her hair away from her face and lowered himself until he was sitting on the floor and she no longer had to look up at him.

"If only that was the only thing I had to apologise for," he said ruefully. Her fingers crept out from beneath the material of his jacket and grasped his wrist. There was nothing delicate in her eyes when their gazes met, just a determination that told him everything about how she had survived what life had thrown at her. Clint felt the connection then, the shared experience of overcoming whatever came their way.

"Don't do that," she told him firmly, "I've had it worse. The next few days are going to be rough but ..."

The fact that he knew she was telling the truth did precisely nothing to make him feel better. The fact that her time in the bunker had opened up old wounds as well as creating new ones was almost more than he could stand. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I mean it Clint," she sighed.

"So do I," he replied, equally firmly. The silence stretched out for a moment, heavy with implication while they tried to figure one another out. Generally it wasn't a problem, whatever it was that had made them, Clint and Natasha were the same. Survivors. Warriors. Partners. Family.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked, needing to take the weight out of the moment. The trust that wavered beneath the pain and the remnants of fear in her eyes made him too aware of himself, too exposed to her. His emotions were too stirred up for him to let her see them.

Natasha released his hand, slipping her own back beneath the jacket. She adjusted her position slightly and sighed, eyes never leaving his. "Just time and maybe a little patience," she replied wearily.

He didn't bother reassuring her that everything would be okay because it obviously wouldn't, but he did give her the reassurances that he would have needed in her place. " You took a heavy hit Nat," he told her seriously, "it's gonna take time to walk it off. Just know that however long it takes, wherever the journey takes you, I'll always have your back."

He rose to his feet then, moving across the room to give her some space. She needed to rest if she was going to heal, she needed time to process things without him monitoring every expression that crossed her face. He would go back to his seat by the window and distract himself with the traffic, the birds, the neighbours, whatever was available.

He couldn't tell her how to process the gamut of emotion that she had to be feeling. Natasha would have to figure it out for herself, to choose her own path as it were. There was no magic pill, no tea and sympathy, that would make things miraculously okay. Even sharing his own experiences in the wake of Loki's control over him would do little to illuminate the path that was right for her. It hurt to think about those days, about how close he had come to losing his mind and his understanding of who he really was, but if she needed him to go down that road then he would do it without a thought. If he had to share with her the worst experience of his life to help her get through hers, then he would. This was Romanoff, his partner, his best friend, he would lie down and die for her if the situation called for it.

"You'll be close by right?" she asked as he walked away, a slight note of apprehension in her voice.

He didn't turn back to look at her, it wasn't necessary. Natasha was now a grenade with the pin pulled, throw her in one direction and everything would work out fine, let her roll in the other … different story entirely. He knew the risks, he would accept the consequences. It was up to him to steer her in the right direction and hope that they both survived the fallout. "Right here," he replied simply. "I'll be right here."


End file.
